From owning 26 books over a month ago, I’ve added only four more to my collection. Although there are—to date—53 books in the series, I am hampered by two factors: first, few of the books that I lack are available on the market, and, second, I have a self-imposed limit in terms of what I want to spend per book.
The second factor has prevented me from acquiring several more books, as these are outside my self-imposed budget. To put it bluntly, there’s no effing way that I’ll spend over $75 for a slim volume, by any author, let alone the hundred being asked for certain authors.
I wish now that I’d known about these books earlier, though ironically, even had I known about them when they were published, I likely would have hesitated as when many of these first appeared I would have balked at the price anyway.
This isn’t to say my resources now are unlimited; my budget is firm, which means I’ve hesitated on multiple occasions to buy certain books that are on the market. Maybe they’ll never drop in price. Maybe certain titles will never appear. C’est la vie, as they say.
There are certain of my collections, so to speak, that will remain incomplete. Such is life: it is imperfect. I lack a book or two here or there. Lacking over 20 in the Little Books series is no different than lacking multiple hundred Arkham House books, for example. In two cases I lack a single volume in a series, and in one of these cases the volume I lack just never seems to appear for sale anywhere. When it does, it’s the “signed/limited” edition at what I’d term insane prices.
If one or books in the Borderlands Press series ever does emerge and is within my budget, I’ll try to pick it up, even though I know that there is no way I’ll get them all. I don’t think I care at this point. The Gaiman and Ligotti books will forever remain out of reach, as will the earlier ones. Malerman and Hill—both in my opinion are overpriced, but I can say that for a dozen others. The market may disagree, as someone appears to have handed over $750 for a book listed on a website recently. There are maybe three more volumes that I’ve found on the market that I might be able to acquire. That takes me to 33 books of the 53 published. This means than 20 or so books are out of reach, which seems like a huge number, as it’s almost 40% of published books at this point. When I reach my limit, will I still care? Will I still check various book seller sites to see if any are listed that fall into my price range? Maybe I’ll keep checking, but I doubt some of these books will come down in price.
I’ve never read any of Jack Ketchum’s fiction. I first heard of Ketchum (whose real name is Dallas Mayr), in early 2022. Mayr died in 2018, so he’ll never shake his head in misery that some unknown reader never came across his fiction while Mayr was alive. It’s not that I don’t own any fiction of Ketchum’s; I have all the copies of Subterranean Press’s attempt to revive Dark Harvest’s brilliant horror anthology series, Night Visions. The first of those copies, aka Night Visions 10, includes one Ketchum story, “The Passenger.” Yet, I’d never read that story.
I’d stumbled across these editions a few years ago, shelved them, and planned on reading the stories in Night Visions 10, 11, and 12, but this never happened. These three books were the only Night Visions books published by Subterranean Press, back in 2001, 2004, and 2006 respectively. Subterranean Press tried to revive a noted anthology twenty years after the last one appeared, but gave up after only three, whereas the original publisher, Dark Harvest, put out nine books between 1984 and 1991.
The original Night Visions books (of which I own all but #2) were unique horror anthologies. Each book contained stories by two known authors and one new writer. Published between 1984 and 1991, they included a variety of well-known names and few up-and-coming ones. Some of the memorable names include Stephen King, Robert McCammon, Clive Barker, Dean Koontz, and F. Paul Wilson. I’m not sure if the horror genre briefly died around in the early 1990s, or just the publisher, or both. I confess that I didn’t read keep up with the horror genre much, though I bought a few books and anthologies. I didn’t follow the market enough to hear about Ketchum, who apparently was a Big Name back then. He was a Big Name in the sort of violent horror tales that I avoided. You know: cannibals and brutal killers.
Lately, though, as I’ve picked up a slew of horror/dark fantasy collections and anthologies from back in the day (and by that I mean the 1990s through the early 2000s, when I mainly ready SF), I’ve come across writers who were big in those days and whose works I either missed or don’t remember. Ketchum is one of these writers, and, having read from cover to cover his book, certain thoughts struck me.
Ketchum’s volume from Borderlands Press, in their Little Books series is entitled A Little Emerald Book of Ephemera. There’s no fiction here; it’s musings about life, fiction, etc. Some of the entries are introductions or afterwords to new editions of his books. His idea of horror aligns with mine: people committing brutal acts, often for no reason. This makes him angry. I feel much the same way. Yet, in reading what he writes about his fiction, I’m not sure I want to read his fiction.
It sounds far more brutal than I think I’d care to experience.
Is that a bad thing, I wonder? Who will remember authors after they’re dead? Far fewer people than read them while he or she was alive. Some authors persist after they die, but these are few in number. Keep in mind that few living writers get published, and many of these rise briefly and then fall to mid-list or worse. From what I’ve read, Ketchum was mostly a paperback writer, and the market for paperback horror disappeared a few decades ago. Aside from a couple of names, such as Stephen King, the horror genre is not a major market. It seems, given the lack of success with the attempted revival of Night Visions, that even in the specialty press horror doesn’t have much of a market. In limited edition hardbacks, published in a few hundred copies, only the die-hard fan or collector will turn their eye (and wallet) to those books.
Sure, there’s still a strong degree of interest in horror, but it likely will never approach the success of fantasy of SF in terms of genre fiction. Ketchum writes, in one of his ephemera, that he sold 300,000 copies of his first book, Off Season. That sounds, at least to me, like a massive success. His later novels apparently didn’t sell as well, but, from what I’ve read, his focus in terms of the horror genre, was on the extreme edge, an uncomfortable edge.
My current fascination with Borderlands Press’s Little Books series is, I’ll admit, a strange one. Reading through some of these has revived a long-dormant interest in dark fiction. I find it interesting that the writers are given free rein: some submit fiction, others non-fiction. Some of the fiction is accompanied by notes about the stories, others included just the stories. Maybe’s there a word limit, and the writer is told: just give me X number of words, it doesn’t matter about what. After all, when you publish something in 500 copies, manic collectors will, like moths, gravitate toward these books. An edition of 500 copies is fewer than most specialty press editions of collections, though probably not by much. It’s hard to say, as not all small press publishers provide exact numbers. In the cases of limited and signed editions, the numbers are more obvious, but not always. Golden Gryphon, for example, listed most of their books as published in editions of 3,000. Other speciality presses aren’t as forthcoming. How many “trade” editions did Dark Harvest of Subterranean Press print in each Night Visions volume? Unknown.
So, in terms of these books, I always wonder: what’s the market? A book (or books) by a certain author will attract fans of that author. Books by certain publishers might attract fans of that publisher, regardless of author. Certain of those books become instant collector’s items, and quickly fetch premiums after publications. A few years ago I bought The Autopsy, a collection of most of Michael Shea’s fiction, published by Centipede Press. It was limited to 500 copies, all signed by Michael Shea, and listed for $125 upon publication. Search online now, and people are selling it for $1,400 or more. Many other Centipede Press editions accrue similarly in value. Ketchum himself mused upon a paperback edition of one of his books being listed for $85; no doubt any limited edition hardcover would fetch far more, especially signed ones, and especially now that he’s dead. Not all small press books attain this market value, but some are up there.
I’m rambling all over the place here… Having started with one writer and then deviating over to small press publishers. I’m going to say that, yes, I wish I’d known about Ketchum while he was alive. It would have made little or no difference. to his life, but maybe I would have picked up a book or two. There are many writers, in many genres, that I’m now reading for the first time who were alive and writing stories and novels a decade ago and who’re now dead: Charles Grant, Rick Hautala, Dennis Etchison. Then again, there are writers I’m also reading for the first time who are still alive, who have been writing for decades, or maybe only a few years. Grant and Etchison appear again and again in noted anthologies, and I wonder as I see their names, will they persist? Is it just Stephen King? Why not them?
I think I’ll stop here, although not far from my mind is the thought that after reading (or in some cases re-reading) anthologies published in the past 20-30 years, that many of the writers whose stories appeared in these anthologies are mostly forgotten. A handful of names persist, but the majority appeared a few times and then vanished.
What the hell happened to them? Where did they go? Will some of them say, “I’m still here?” Did others fade away, die, or quit? And if so, why? Even those who didn’t quit, now quickly before they are forgotten, at least by publishers?
Just over a month until Record Store Day, or as I call it, Zero Luck Day. Last time I participated in RSD, I came away with nothing. Either the record store where I shop didn’t buy the records I wanted, or I lost out in their lottery format. This store isn’t a first-come-first-serve opportunity, despite me being third in line that morning. No, you need to email your requests, and if they get the record, they’ll draw names from those who submitted requests.
So, maybe my tastes in music don’t match up with popular tastes. It seems everyone wanted some single by an artist called Swift, one whose music I’ve never heard. My three requests came to naught. Not a peep via phone or email from the store, and not a copy in their racks.
This time, I widened my net, sending a list of nearly 10 records, from 12″ to LP to double LP. My research found some titles with close to 10,000 copies pressed, and others with closer to 1,000 copies. It likely means that this store won’t buy (or be assigned) the titles with smaller pressings. Still, I’m hoping there will be few requests for the ones with large pressings. Maybe I’ll end up with one of the records I requested. None by Swift, so maybe there’s a chance.
Compared to the last time, just one record would be a success. But, I wouldn’t bank on it.
Today I dropped by a used book store. I headed first over to the mystery section, and picked up one paperback under the Soho Crime imprint. Then I looked at the science fiction section, but found nothing of interest. I glanced at the horror section, which usually is dominated by two authors, both whose last name starts with the letter “K.” One of the hardcover books positioned to face out on the shelf was a book I’d see years ago. I thought I had once owned a copy, maybe a paperback or such, and almost walked away. But, it was a hardcover in decent condition, even with a mylar protective cover, and I knew it was a book I currently didn’t have. There was a small water stain on the top, but otherwise it looked ok. The price was $8.49. I opened the cover and saw someone had penciled Xs and check marks next to the stories. That’s ok, I thought. I can erase those.
After I bought the book, I realized someone had written a name on a page just before the table of contents. It was the editor’s name, Kirby McCauley. Well, I thought, maybe the previous owner kept track of the authors. Later than evening I did a lazy search online for McCauley’s signature, and it matched. Not too bad, signed by the editor. I erased the pencil marks, then flipped to the first story. At first, my heart sank. I hate it when people write in books, and someone had written the date above the title of the story. Then I saw a faint signature below that. The story had been signed by the author, Dennis Etchison. I flipped to the second story, and Ed Bryant had signed that one as well. Story after story had been signed by the contributor—13 of the 24 contributors had signed or inscribed the book. A few were dated 1982. The others were undated. The previous owner had somehow been able to collect signatures from the following people:
• Kirby McCauley • Stephen King • Dennis Etchison • Edward Bryant • Karl Edward Wagner • Gene Wolfe • Theodore Sturgeon • Ramsey Campbell • Robert Bloch • Ray Bradbury • Joe Haldeman • Charles L. Grant • Manly Wade Wellman
I have no idea what a book like this, with signatures from Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Robert Bloch, and others, might be worth, but this probably ranks up there as perhaps the greatest or luckiest find in my book collecting life, ever.
The previous owner had bought the book over 40 years ago, had gone around to conventions and collected signatures from authors who were either famous or on the way to great fame. What happened to the previous owner for the book to end up in the used book store, and sold for only $8.49? The book store people had no idea who signed the book. If they had, it would be behind glass with a much higher price.
Most of the contributors are now dead. I think of the ones who haven’t signed it, only three remain alive. It would be cool if even one or all were signing books somewhere and I was able to make it there, that their names could be added to this book. What history lies within, nestled among these great stories!
I tend to buy few books sight unseen. This year I may have bought more books online than ever in my life, and I’ve bought maybe a couple of dozen this year, if that. Three times now, however, I’ve been bitten. Two books were listed in fine condition. One was in far from fine, with multiple tears in the dust jacket, and the book itself askew. The other had a few small tears in the dust jacket. The third, well, it was in great condition, but the seller never mentioned the glued owner plate from the previous owner, and even misrepresented the publisher. My bad for not researching the latter item, seller’s bad for not mentioning the first part.
In all three cases I’ve had to suppress my anger. True, I’ve missed things in books even when looking at them in stores, such as remainder marks, or a previous owner’s name, or a second edition when I thought it was a first edition. Those were all my fault. That last item doesn’t affect me too much, though I prefer first editions when buying nice copies of books. We all make mistakes. That’s how we learn. Far more of the books I’ve bought online this year have been fine. Even when buying from “reputable” bookstores online I’ve sometimes received books with creased covers, hastily shoved into boxes by overworked and underpaid employees. Still, relying on the word of others in this case can be frustrating.
Avoiding online purchases of used books in the past means that I’ve missed out on many books, but I’ve always preferred to hold in my hands the book that I want to buy, whether new, used from a bookstore, or a dealer at a convention. I have, maybe once or twice, swapped a cover onto a book where one book was in good condition but the cover not so much, and the other book had a nice cover. If they’re the same book, for the same price, I felt a degree of guilt, but also thought it would be allowed.
What happens to these three books that arrived in poor conditions? Well, they’re hard to find, so I suspect I’ll keep them around as “reader copies,” and if by chance I find replacements, bite the bullet and buy a second copy. Maybe it will happen, maybe it won’t.
Pikes Peak is a mountain in Colorado, near the town of Colorado Springs. It’s a Fourteener, meaning the peak is above 14,000 feet, or 4,267 meters. This is a curious American affectation, perhaps a 14er sounds more impressive than a 4.267er. There are 96 peaks known as 14er in the US, 53 of them in Colorado. The state with the next biggest number is Alaska, with 29. Some of the 14ers in Colorado have high difficulty ratings. Not so Pikes Peak. In fact, you can drive to the top in the comfort of your car, or take a cog railway from Manitou Springs, just outside Colorado Springs.
If you hike, there are two routes: Barr Trail and Crags Trail. These take slightly longer than a car ride. Barr approaches from the town of Manitou Springs, Crags from the other side, requiring drive to the trailhead from Colorado Springs where we’d rented a house for a few days.
In May 2022, I hiked up Crags Trail to Pikes Peak with three friends. It was one of the toughest hikes in my life so far. Each time I push myself to a new hiking challenge, I learn things about myself—some good, some bad. Still, each other new challenge brings newer unknowns, and while you can prepare somewhat in theory, the actual practice of the hike is far, far different from what you read or hear from others.
Our hike took place in May, only a few days before the Crags campground opened to the public. This meant parking about a mile before the actual trailhead, walking around the barrier, and hiking up the dirt road. We left our rented house at 4:15am, arrived at the parking lot at 5am and started the hike 15 minutes later, before the break of dawn. At this point, we’re already above 9,000 feet, so the ascent means we’re only gaining just over 5,000 feet. Hiking Barr Trail means starting at around 6,500 feet, so a much bigger elevation gain. Still, it’s easy to forget you still have eight or so miles to walk from the car to the peak. You think at the start that you can cover three miles in an hour. You are quickly proven wrong.
The first part until the tree-line is relatively easy. You follow a trail that winds through forest and continually climbs, but at a manageable pace. Once we reached the tree-line, which is around 11,000 to 12,000 feet, we started to feel the wind. There were two short windbreaks around the area known as Devil’s Playground, so named for how the lighting jumps from rock to rock in that area when there are thunderstorms. Luckily, for us, the skies were clear.
Once we left those windbreaks, we were exposed to the elements, or rather the wind, as the skies were clear. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so. At this point, we’re hiking near the road that leads to the peak, although we’re on thinly worn trails, not along the road itself. There were some patches of snow that we were forced to navigate. At times we were knee deep in soft snow, but these were fairly short patches. The last mile or so took over an hour. The “trail” here ascended a boulder field, and consisted mostly of stepping from rock to rock, following the guidelines of tiny rock cairns placed by previous hikers. At one point I caught my foot in between two rocks and went down hard. Fortunately this didn’t result in any injury, aside from some minor abrasions and wounded pride.
Once we reached the summit, we sought a long break in the visitor center. This place has all the amenities tourists might expect: a restaurant, bathrooms, museum, gift shop, and more. We lingered here perhaps longer than planned. We tried the unique donuts, browsed the gift shop. I felt gassed, out of breath, and wondered if the fatigue I felt was just fatigue, or the hint of altitude sickness. Reaching 14,115 feet above sea level is no mean feat, especially if you’ve walked up each step (well, not from zero to the top, but still). We had no transportation reserved back down to the car, so after a long break (probably too long), we strapped on our gear once more, and headed back down to the Crags trailhead. I’m sure the people who drove up or took the railway were amused by our attire and backpacks, and the hiking poles we all carried, not to mention the glazed look in our eyes. Downhill should be easier, right?
By the time we exited the boulder field, the wind had picked up significantly. It was now early afternoon. Had this been summer, we would have faced the danger of storms and summer monsoon weather. Still, the winds appeared to reach speeds of 30-50 miles per hour, and we struggled all the way until the tree-line. We sought occasional shelter behind any rock big enough. I’m generally a fast hiker, but unforeseen circumstances (a busted hiking boot among the party), kept the pace slow.
Finally. Tree-line meant silence, a break from the constant buffeting of the wind. The wind above the trees never stopped, hitting us from the side, rear, and sometimes the front. Once sheltered by trees, there remained the sound of wind through the trees, but much calmer. Here we no longer felt the physical strain of the wind. Along the way, both up and down, we’d paused many times. We now faced the prospect of arriving back at the car after dark, much as we’d left the car while it still was dark.
It’s a curious feature of hiking mountains. Going uphill you’re focused on what’s immediately in front of you. You don’t see the big picture, unless you pause and look around. Going downhill the trail seemed to go on forever; you saw far more of it, and thus it seemed to take longer down the trail. In the end, we did arrive after dark, ordered pizza on the drive back the house, and considered the day a success. A hard-fought success, but a success nonetheless. I’d hike Pikes Peak again, but this time via Barr Trail, just to be different.
I’ve now significantly increased my collection of these books, having gone from one to six to 26 volumes. There’s a hint of madness in my eyes when I look at them all lined up, or even laid down flat and line up next to each other. Maybe that madness gets dulled somewhat when I consider that I own less than half of the books in that series, and at some point I’ll run up against insane collector prices. Not to say that around $30 for a small volume with less than 150 pages doesn’t seem insane, but I’ve seen some of the books listed for over $300.
When compared side by side, there are certain physical variations in the books. This isn’t just in color, as is expected from their titles, but in size, materials, and design. Some are smooth, while others are bound in a rough cloth-like material. I like the rougher ones best, as I find that a certain roughness feels better than the smoother, earlier volumes. Still, the ones with smooth covers seem to hold the print of the titles better, while the rougher designs may over time lose some of the text and
In terms of the design, some books have just text on the cover, some have text and art. The fonts are not the same, and some use small caps while others regular text. The titles and bylines also are all over the place vertically. None of the books have any text on the spines, so when lined up there is no way to tell the title of any book. I supposed that’s part of the reason Borderlands Press created display cases for each grouping of five books (or, a quick way to make some additional cash).
In terms of the writers, aside from these books I don’t own a single other copy of their other works, with minor exceptions, such as F. Paul Wilson and William Hope Hodgson. Wilson is the author whose sole book I had when I started this vacuuming up of books in the series. As for Hodgson, I’d bought to books published by Donald M. Grant many years ago. I’d heard of most of the other authors, with certain exceptions: Charlotte Riddell, a long-forgotten Victorian era writer, and a few newer writers like Mort Castle, Brian Keene, Josh Malerman, etc. Some writers appear in collections that I own, but I’ll confess (and apologize to the authors) that this didn’t lead me to track down their own works.
Speaking of Riddell, there are few women writers in this series, which is a shame. There are only three other women writers so far out of the 52 published books , meaning the other 48 are male. The books appear infrequently; the series started prior to 2004, and with 52 books listed published and one announced for later this month. Perhaps the publishers and editors will find more women writers as they continue with the series. Or maybe not. Maybe the series will run out steam, or interest, although hopefully it will continue and also bring attention to many other writers out there. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll now actually look for some of their other books.
Recently I bought a collection of stories, a set of collaborations between Gardner Dozois and other writers, called Slow Dancing Through Time. When I bought it I didn’t realize that I’d bought the special limited edition, and that it came in a slipcase. Published by Ursus/Ziesing back in 1990, this book is one of 374 numbered and lettered copies signed by all contributors, including Dozois, Pat Cadigan, Michael Swanwick, Jack Dann, Jack C. Haldeman II, Susan Casper, Michael Bishop, Tim Kirk, Vern Dufford, and Dick Ivan Punchatz (the latter three the illustrators). A trade edition also appeared, though in an unknown number.
It’s a beautiful book, with a wonderful illustration inside the front and back covers by Tim Kirk. It’s a book I’ve seen previously somewhere, but without remembering where. Possibly at some SF convention. Reading it now, more than 30 years later, with several of the contributors no longer alive, is a strange feeling. A book like this doesn’t feel 30 odd years old, or maybe I don’t feel that the passage of time has stretched so long from 1990 to the present.
Collections and anthologies are an interesting breed of book. Writers of short stories usually sell their stories to magazines, and they sell enough, and reach a certain degree of fame, sometimes succeed in getting several of their stories published in a collection, or an anthology of like-minded tales. When it comes to books, the novel market dominates. Short story collections usually only appear in smaller print runs, unless you’re someone like Stephen King. They thrive within the embrace of small press publishers, as these publishers generally have print runs of a few thousand copies. The great part about collections is reading short works of fiction, but what I find just as much fun is reading the intros. These may be in the form of the general introduction, usually where the author bemoans the lack of markets for short stories, and the limited press run of their collection, how they begged and pleaded for their publisher to cobble together this great volume. Or, they could be smaller intros to each story (or in some cases, afterwords, where the writer patiently asks the reader to make sure that the reader actual read the story before the afterword—sometimes unsuccessfully, I might note in my case).
Some writers seem to put as much work into their introductions, as their stories. Harlan Ellison is like that. Others try to let the stories speak for themselves, such as Jack Vance, who only wrote a few brief intros to his collections. Part of my fascination with the non-story pieces is because these often are insights into the mind of the author, who tries to recreate the genesis or meaning of the story. This isn’t something you can do we you write a story, but once written many writers seem to want to look backward and try to explain, to themselves as much as to the reader, how that story came about and what it means to them.
Perhaps, at least in my case, the juxtaposition of the story and the accompanying pieces are a reminder of the work that goes into any fiction, even quite short ones. Good short stories must have an impact, a short sharp shock. A simple joke told by a comedian has been honed and re-written multiple times, to reach the payoff. A short story has been conceived, written, stripped down to its essentials. After that effort, getting an insight into what brought that story to life adds to it, makes the writer seem human and not like some god.
The intro, afterword, or whatever one calls that accompanying text, provides not only insight into the genesis of a story, but the time and place around that story. Sometimes the writer will go into detail how they sold it to a book or magazine. Many of these no magazines no longer exist, or seem like strange choices. Some stories have a winding life until they finally find a home, or end up forgotten and alone until restored among its siblings in a volume of the author’s work.
Collections without such intros are often sad, sterile affairs. Sure, you can read the stories, but by themselves they feel, well, empty. That, of course, is the personal choice of the author who’s likely not getting paid by the word for writing those non-fictional pieces. It does seem a shame, in the age of the internet, but even prior, that many of the short story markets and publications no longer exist. From the pulps to the slick, to specialty magazines and fanzines, many now lie lost and forgotten. Such is it, I suppose, with some older writers, whose books no longer are in print. The genre market is a tough one, even for living authors. Dead ones for the most part now also live in the past. Rediscovering this volume maybe keeps their memory alive a little longer.
Currently one of the hottest show on TV is “The Last of Us,” based on a video game from years ago. I’ve watched part of the first two episodes, and read about the game. Not sure I’ll watch any more episodes. I like Pedro Pascal as an actor, but the idea of another zombie movie is beyond boring. I’m not sure how many seasons of The Walking Dead stumbled around on the screens, but I’ve never much cared for zombie movies. The same goes for vampire movies; one features devious dead people (vampires), the other brainless dead people seeking brains—or flesh. Horror these days seems to center around such strange beasts.
I see horror instead in real life. Not a day goes by without reading about a mass shooting, or a murder-suicide, or horrific killings and rapes. These are the real horrors, perpetrated not by non-human monsters, but real and very much human monsters. Serial killers? Scary, but pale in comparison to soul-less people who kill others, hurt others, and act as if it means nothing to them or the rest of the world. Horror? The real horror comes from places like Russia, people like Putin, Prigozhin, and their minions, their soldiers who shoot for no reason, who murder men, women, and children. Who invade a country for no reason but their own delusion. That’s horror.
Yet, that kind of horror doesn’t make for good TV, apparently. Instead, we get shows about zombies and humans killing zombies, pretending to be zombies to kill other humans. Or, we get something like “The Last of Us,” with the world overrun in two days and split into federal government and rebels, and people in-between. Frankly, that’s been done over and over, and I don’t get the adulation for this show. It’s based on a video game. In that game, the goal is to get an infected but immune human somewhere to get a cure. The irony? The person tasked to get her there decides to save her rather than let he be used to find a cure. So, no cure. Also, in the sequel, he dies. It all seems pointless.
Recently I mused upon lazily collecting some of the chapbooks in the Little Books series from Borderlands Press. Having having owned one of the books for many years I happened to pick up a couple more. Perhaps that strange human characteristic of wanting to gather more of the same, I went ahead and looked for other books.
There are two limitations in this effort. First, my price threshold is fairly low; I don’t foresee spending more than $45 for a single book, especially given that these are small chapbooks. Sure, they’re limited to 500 (in most cases) copies, and are signed. But, is that such a big deal? Second, some are hard to find. I’ve checked the usual suspects like Bookfinder and eBay, and so far have been able to locate listings for all but 11 of the books.
What’s my ceiling here, I wonder? So far 53 books have been published. I now own 7, and possibly may pick up another 10-15 before I hit my price ceiling. At what point does it become an obsession? Probably never. To consider having less than half of the complete set is, to a completist, somewhat of a disappointment. The most expensive listing I’ve seen so far is $200 for (to me) an unknown author. There are two or three writers whose books in this series likely will never reach the market for less than $500. Is it then worth it owning a tiny piece of cardboard and paper?
As I’ve said before, I’m more of a haphazard collector when it comes to books. I want the ones that I can read, that fit my interests, and fall under a reasonable budget. My interests are narrow. Generally I’ll focus on authors I like, such as Jack Vance, James P. Blaylock, Tim Powers, Michael Shea, a few others. In a few small cases I’ve looked at publishers as an option. I own all but one of the Golden Gryphon hard covers. I considered trying to collect Arkham House or Dark Harvest, but many of the books from the former are beyond expensive. When it comes to the latter, I only really focused on their Night Visions series, where the only one I don’t have is impossible to find.
I read about other book collectors and marvel at their persistence and resourcefulness. To me there’s a certain joy in holding a rare book, but if there are multiple states, such as trade, limited, and deluxe limited, then I’ll happily own the trade edition. Slipcases, tray cases, these mean nothing to me if I can have the same book in a decent edition.
